


Little Bird, It's All Right to Be Afraid

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, insecure shiro, this is.......the sappiest thing I have ever written, virgin!Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 10:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13433208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: "The trouble was, Shiro didn't know if he'd ever be ready. There was something deeply terrifying about sex. It implied a loss of control, however pleasurable—and while Shiro trusted Keith with his life, he wasn't sure he wanted to be seen with all his walls down. There was nothing desirable about Shiro, the scarred cripple, in the throes of ecstasy. He pictured himself during the act—squirming and sweating and shuddering apart under Keith hands—and couldn't understand how Keith would feel anything but disgust."





	Little Bird, It's All Right to Be Afraid

The truth was this: Shiro was a virgin.

He'd had a girlfriend, once upon a time: A high school sweetheart. They'd kissed and held hands and gone on runs together after school...Did homework over tea and coffee. But there'd never been any fondling; no hitched up skirts or tangled bedsheets or backs pressed to headboards; no morning-after pancakes. Shiro's sex drive was an elusive thing, and he'd never felt that _spark_ for Mackenzie—that heady, liquid-gold desire to hold her and tease her into climax. In the end their respective acceptance letters tore them apart, to opposite ends of the country—and Shiro entered the Garrison a virgin. There, he'd been too busy with schoolwork to ever bother with bedroom drama.

That was all before the Galra and the prosthetic, and the mental and physical scars.

Shiro had always expected he'd settle down with someone, before the war. Now he'd be surprised to ever share a kiss again. The Galra had ravaged him for parts, and the bits they'd left behind were fragile—rough like scrap metal. He would cut anyone who tried to hold him.

Keith held him anyway.

 

 

It made sense, really, for Keith to make the first move. He was deeply afraid of love, because he expected every road to end in rejection—but he was brave, too, and the kind of fierce that could shake cities. So one day he strode up to Shiro, rested his palms on his cheeks, and guided him down for a kiss.

Shiro had dreamed about this; of course he had. He'd wondered what Keith tasted like. He'd fantasized about Keith's mouth and his chest and his hands. But he'd spun those fantasies from their sparring sessions, since they were—besides the occasional hug or shoulder clap—their precedent for close physical contact. It created an expectation of roughness, so that every time Shiro took himself in hand he pictured the sex as a hasty, violent thing.

This—the way Keith brushed his lips against Shiro's— _this_ was almost too gentle to feel. It shocked Shiro, how soft Keith was with him. He barely registered the tickle of skin against his lower lip. A line of fingers settled on his jawline, and Shiro gasped.

The noise startled them both; Keith's lips left Shiro's. He made to step back, but Shiro caught his arm.

“You...” Shiro managed. “You really want...?”

He made to go on, but the words wouldn't leave him. There was the tiniest click-click of metal as his hand shook around Keith's wrist.

Keith seemed confused. He placed his free hand over Shiro's, and squeezed the fingers slightly.

“Of course I do,” he said. He was scared too, Shiro could tell. But his voice was full of conviction. “Do you...?”

“Yes,” Shiro croaked. His eyes stung. “More than—more than anything, Keith, but I'm—you know I'm not okay.” He choked on a laugh. “I'm nowhere _near_ okay.”

“I know,” Keith shushed him. His hand never left Shiro's. “I know.”

 

 

Keith struggled with physical contact. It was a simple fact. A lonely childhood had left him a stranger to affection; when he and Shiro first met, he could barely endure a handshake. But as time wore on he began to chase Shiro's touches. More than once Keith found an excuse to fall asleep on Shiro's lap; to shuffle up against him before a test, like he wanted to hug him but couldn't remember how to lift his arms. It became clear to Shiro that Keith was not averse to physical contact—merely unpracticed. Once Shiro proved he wouldn't run away—that Keith's touches were welcome—he opened up like a morning glory. A hand appeared on Shiro's arm one day. Another time, late one night, Keith dared to lace their fingers together. He stood closer to Shiro as they talked—wasn't afraid to pull him by the wrist to the sims.

“After you disappeared,” Keith murmured to Shiro one night, after everyone had fallen asleep around the Castle's movie screen, “I didn't feel...real, anymore. You were the one person I could bear to touch. And I know that's not—you know. Healthy. But I was kind of living in my own head before you, and when you left I didn't...have anything to hold on to anymore. Anything physical. So I just started looking around for something to make me feel...like a person again.”

Keith paused. The monitor above them was silent. The screen cast a blue sheen over their nest of blankets, catching the line of Keith's jaw—a few strands of his hair. There was a rustle of fabric as he moved closer to Shiro; Shiro pulled a blanket higher over them, and Keith snuggled up to his chest.

At last, with Shiro's arm tucked around his back, Keith went on: “I started hooking up with students. After I got booted out. They'd come into town on the weekends...And I'd be there at the bar. Sometimes one of them would come home with me, or to a hotel somewhere, and we'd...mess around.” He swallowed. “I'm not sure I even liked any of it. I just wanted someone's hands on me, and I didn't want it to mean anything, because it wasn't you.”

Shiro didn't trust himself to speak. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. In a desperate motion he bundled Keith closer, higher up against his chest so that they were face to face. He pressed his lips to Keith's forehead—left them there for a long while, before moving to Keith's temple; his cheeks.

_I'm so sorry. I love you. I wish I'd been there._

Shiro felt Keith start to sag in his arms. He giggled a bit when Shiro kissed the tip of his nose.

“Hey, hey,” he teased, at the fevered pace. “It's okay. I'm not going anywhere.”

Shiro wasn't so sure. Any fight could be the one to win the war, and any day could be their last. They had to make the most of their afforded time together. Shiro wanted to take that next step, but when Keith's hand slipped under Shiro's shirt one night after dinner—

_Light pain metal cold I don't want to die please no straps on his wrists heat sawblades he couldn't turn his head to look yellow eyes surgical masks don't please no—_

“Shiro, Shiro. Hey. Look at me, babe. Come back to me.”

The voice reached him from someplace far away. Shiro pulled his senses outward, and discovered that he was tucked against the far corner of the couch, his arms latched around his drawn-up legs like he was afraid he'd shake apart. When he focused, he could make out Keith a few feet away, crouched on the floor with his hand outstretched.

“There you are,” Keith murmured. Shiro could see how panicked he was—he knew him too well—but he kept his voice even. “Can you hear me, Shiro?”

For a long moment Shiro fought for breath. The air snagged in his throat like tissue paper on a nail; the little scraps that reached his lungs were barely enough to form words. “I,” he spluttered, “I don't—”

“It's okay. It's okay.”

“I'm sorry...”

Keith positively crumpled at that. “Shiro. Shiro, sweetie. It's okay. It's—look at me. I've got you.” Fingers on Shiro's arm—the same whisper of pressure from their first kiss. Shiro's forehead met Keith's shoulder. “Takashi. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Shiro felt a tear slide down his cheek; a sob escaped between his clenched teeth. “No, I do,” he choked out. “God dammit, I—Keith, I want this. I've wanted this so badly, for so long—and now I know you do too, and I can't even—I wish I could just...”

“It's okay.”

“It's not okay,” Shiro snapped. In frustration he nudged forward into Keith's shoulder, mussing his bangs. “It's not okay,” he repeated. “We don't have time for this...”

Keith's arms wrapped snuggly around Shiro's back. His tone left no room for argument: “There will be time. We're doing this when you're ready, Shiro, or not at all. I don't care how long it takes.”

 

 

The trouble was, Shiro didn't know if he'd ever be ready. There was something deeply terrifying about sex. It implied a loss of control, however pleasurable—and while Shiro trusted Keith with his life, he wasn't sure he wanted to be seen with all his walls down. There was nothing desirable about Shiro, the scarred cripple, in the throes of ecstasy. He pictured himself during the act—squirming and sweating and shuddering apart under Keith hands—and couldn't understand how Keith would feel anything but disgust for him.

So Shiro put it off. He pushed down the warmth that spread through his belly; bit back the moans when Keith brushed his fingers along the back of his neck. After that first panic attack, Keith was always on the lookout for signs of stress or tension, and would retreat at any threat of discomfort.

“You know,” he told Shiro once, where they stood pressed together in the hallway. “We don't ever have to do it. I know what I said before, but—I don't want you to think sex has to be like, this big thing between us.”

Shiro's hand tightened along the back of Keith's neck. “I know,” he murmured. “I do want to, though. Have sex. It's just...I'm going to be shit at it. I've never done it before.”

Keith pursed his lips. If he hadn't known Shiro was a virgin, he didn't say so. “It's really not that complicated. You just kiss and touch each other until you find out that makes you both feel good, and then you do that over and over again until you come.” His brow furrowed as Shiro laughed. “What?”

“You—” Shiro giggled. “Just the way you phrased that...so dispassionately...”

“Hey, it's true!” Keith said. “There's nothing inherently romantic about sex. You can have great sex and a terrible relationship, or a great relationship and no sex. I really believe that.”

The last bit sounded rehearsed, like Keith had been looking for an excuse to say it for a while. Shiro smiled. “Okay.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Keith blew a stream of air at Shiro's forelock, ruffling the hair. “Just so we're clear.”

 

 

It got easier. Keith would meet him with that ever-so-fond smile, his fingers flitting along Shiro's shoulder blades as he kissed him silly, and Shiro would think—maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this could work.

And one day, as they scrambled out of their lions, their radios full of celebratory chatter, Shiro embraced Keith and asked,

“Do you still want to try?”

 

 

So Shiro lowered himself into the unknown, like a swimmer wading into a lake. He let himself drift away in Keith's kisses, only half cognizant of the metal under his hand as he scanned open the door to his room. The Paladins fumbled over the threshold, Keith sneaking a kiss to the underside of Shiro's jaw; Shiro felt himself shudder as he moved down the line of his throat, coming to a rest at his shoulder.

“God, I love you,” Shiro breathed.

In the back corner of his mind, Shiro heard a hiss as the door closed behind them; the rest of the world was white noise and Keith, Keith, Keith. His leg hit the edge of the bed, and Keith's breath skittered over his skin as he drew back for a moment, long enough to sit down. Then Shiro leaned forward, and the two met for another kiss—and another.

“Clothes?” Keith suggested. His lips were wet and red. Shiro was about to spur him on when Keith's hand found the back of his head, and the moment snagged.

“Keith,” Shiro murmured. He reached around, as steady as he could, and coaxed Keith's hand back to the space between them. “You're shaking.”

The line of Keith's mouth shifted, like he was trying not to bite his lip. A look of shame crossed his face.

“I...” His shoulders tensed. “Shiro. I'm so sorry. It's—”

“Keith, don't,” Shiro said. He squeezed Keith's hand, even as his heart splintered. “It's fine. We don't have to do this.”

“What—no, don't look at me like that. I want this. I'm just—” Keith paused. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before he dipped his head, scrubbing a palm over his cheek. “I can't believe this is actually happening, you know? Back on Earth—and here. Do you have any idea how many times I've dreamt about this?”

Shiro's brain short-circuited. “You've...dreamt about this.”

“Shiro,” Keith chided. There was a wobbly smile on his face now—Shiro could see it past his bangs. “I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kind of head over heals for you...”

Shiro felt something in him crumble. They were both trembling now, Shiro's metal fingers clicking a rhythm into Keith's skin. The words fell out before he could stop them: “What do you dream about, when you—dream about us?”

That made Keith look up. A fresh tear rolled down his cheek; he chuckled, and the sound was on the edge of panic. “I...You seriously want to know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” Shiro let his hands unfold around Keith's, moving up to cup his face—combing the tears away with his thumbs. “Keith...”

“I want to hold you,” Keith said. His breath hitched as Shiro kissed his cheek—his temple. “You're so beautiful and warm and—and I always want to be close to you...”

“Sweetheart...”

“I dream about—getting to touch you. Just getting to feel you under my hands...feeling your heartbeat. And god, I dream about what you—” Keith paused. “About what you sound like when you're about to come. When I've got my hand around your dick and you're slick and flushed and not even trying to keep quiet...I'm sorry, I know you—”

Shiro didn't have the time to reassure him. He just crushed their lips together, perhaps with more force than necessary—but Keith met him with equal rawness, and the two shifted closer on the bed, Shiro's hands trailing down to settle on Keith's hips. There was a hiss of breath as Keith's teeth found Shiro's lower lip; Shiro stifled a groan.

“No, please,” Keith managed, as he drew back. “Please, I want to hear you...”

So Shiro let the next one come. He let Keith feel the vibrations as he moaned into his mouth; let his hips shift with the next rush of arousal. There was no retreat—no disgust from Keith. He melted against Shiro, his fingers digging into his back as he slid closer, almost into his lap. He licked a stripe into the skin of Shiro's neck; Shiro giggled and ducked away.

“Sorry,” Keith said. “Too weird?”

“Maybe for me right now, but...” In a surprise attack, Shiro swooped down, lapping his own line along the column of Keith's neck. Keith's reaction surprised him: he keened, his pulse throbbing under Shiro's tongue. The sound went straight to Shiro's groin, and he had to struggle to keep his tone even as he said,

“Still okay?”

Keith's hands were on Shiro's back; they fisted around the fabric of his shirt. “God, yes...”

“Okay.” Shiro nibbled playfully at Keith's throat; Keith shivered again as he kissed the dip of his sternum. “You're so sensitive here...”

“Fuck, Shiro...” Keith huffed out a breath, his fingers spasming around Shiro's back. “Hold on....” He forced his hands from Shiro's shirt and sat back a bit on the bed, wrenching his shirt up over his head.

It was then that the moment caught up to Shiro. It felt as though his batteries had run out; the sight of Keith's bare chest leadened his limbs. Finally his own hands found the bottom of his shirt. He was about to lift it when he remembered his reaction from before, when Keith's fingers on his skin had triggered a flashback.

Shiro paused. The sound of Keith moving on the bed seemed louder than before; the rustling of his clothes grated back and forth against his ears.

Fabric hit the floor with a thump. Then Keith stilled.

A voice startled Shiro from his thoughts: “It's okay, you know. You can keep it on if you want.”

Shiro turned his head. Keith was naked, angled towards Shiro on the bed. Before now Shiro had been afraid of pity—of revulsion—but Keith only looked concerned. He sat there, eyebrows raised...the area around his eyes a little pinker than usual from crying. A loose strand of hair had fallen over his nose.

In a rush, Shiro said, “Are you sure?”

Keith's smile was small but warm.

“Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Shiro wasn't sure what to do with Keith's permission. He remained still for a long moment, his fingers caught around the lower part of his shirt. He became aware of a dull whirring as a machine clicked on downstairs, and the thud of his own heartbeat against his ribs. Finally he closed his eyes, sucked in a breath through his nose—and on the exhale, tugged his shirt up over his head.

Shiro thought he felt Keith tense up on the bed next to him. He wrestled the shirt off; years of habit made him want to fold it, but that felt silly, so he dumped it onto the floor with an air of feigned nonchalance. His pants came next. It was easier to focus on the fabric under his hands; he could feel Keith's eyes on his back, but he couldn't acknowledge the scars yet.

Finally he was naked, his clothes a crumpled heap on the floor. Shiro summoned up his courage and swiveled around, the sheets crumpling under his feet where he sat cross-legged before Keith. His erection had flagged somewhat, the shame heavy on his shoulders as Keith took in the mess of his torso.

Like so many times before, Keith reached out a hand.

The words came out heavy—quiet: “Can I...?”

Shiro forced some of the tension out of his shoulders. He swallowed.

“If you want.”

“I do.” Keith slunk forward on the bed. Shiro was struck by the contrast of his skin against the sheets; he seemed to glow with color, so that somehow Shiro felt a bit brighter where his fingers skimmed his chest. He started at the space between Shiro's pecs, combing down to his stomach with a touch almost too gentle to feel. He traced one of the larger scars along Shiro's ribs, and a tremor rattled up Shiro's spine.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Keith murmured. Giving Shiro time to react, he dipped closer. Shiro felt his breath catch as he pressed a kiss to the scar along his upper ribs. His hair tickled Shiro's skin; he paused, then moved to the next scar, and the next—planting little kisses in a trail up his marred body, like he was mapping constellations with his mouth.

By the time Keith reached the skin around his prosthetic, Shiro was shaking like a leaf, chest tight with repressed sobs. Tears caught on the curve of his chin—the raised edges of the scar on his nose. At last a wrecked sound tore out of him, and the moment snapped: Shiro felt calloused palms against his back as Keith gathered him to his chest. His body was so warm, his arms gentle where they wrapped around Shiro's sides. The voice in his ear cracked with emotion:

“You're so beautiful, Shiro...I love you so much...I love every part of you...thank you for showing me...”

Shiro babbled right back: “Keith, no—I don't deserve you...I don't deserve this. The things I've done, you can't—”

“It's okay. It's okay.”

The words were like glass in his mouth: “I killed people. Some of those scars were from—prisoners I knew. Friends. I couldn't...”

“You did what you had to. You deserve whatever makes you happy Shiro, please—”

“I don't, I don't.”

“You _do_.” Keith's hands shifted along his back, slow and sure. “I know you don't believe me right now...that's okay. It's okay. We'll get there. Just, Shiro—no matter what happened. Know that I'll always love you. All right? Just...”

He trailed off. Shiro sniffed, and his fingers found the ridge of Keith's spine. He slumped forward, his forehead coming to a rest against Keith's. Their noses brushed. Keith ran his fingers through his hair, and Shiro closed his eyes. He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath.

“Shiro...” Keith murmured.

“I—” Shiro croaked. “Sorry. Kind of...killed the mood, didn't I?”

Keith pressed back his cowlick. “You want to stop?”

“Do you?”

“No. But if you—”

“It's fine.” His eyes met Keith's, and he felt something in his chest loosen. “I—I'd like to keep going. If that's okay.”

“Of course it's okay.” Keith tucked his head against Shiro's neck. His hands slid from Shiro's back; his fingers ran down his ribcage and around to the skin of his thighs. Shiro tilted his head enough to kiss Keith's cheek. His breath stirred the hair around Keith's ear...he could feel Keith's hands straying farther down, towards his cock, and a whine tripped out of him as that same almost-touch grazed his belly. Keith was exploring his lower half now, flitting along his legs and hips—the ridge where the knobs of his spine became the line down to his ass...teasing him with little wisps of contact. Finally his palms landed squarely on his upper thighs. Shiro huffed out a “hngg” noise; his hands spasmed along Keith's back as he kneaded his fingers into the skin, pulse thrumming in his ears. Keith eased his palms inward, and said,

“Is this...?”

Shiro couldn't get the words out fast enough: “God, Keith, yes—please.”

Keith arched against him, and Shiro registered belatedly how husky his voice had gotten—how strained with _want_ —before Keith's hand finally closed around his cock.

The warmth and texture of Keith's skin had Shiro gasping; his legs hitched, and his breath puffed out against Keith's neck. He dipped back to give Keith more room, grounding himself with his hands on Keith's shoulders as he traced his length.

It was so much different from when Shiro touched himself. Even though he always used his non-dominant hand—he could never bear to use the prosthetic—there was an inherent predictability to his movements; a familiarity in the catch and pull of his palm and fingers along his shaft. This—Keith's touch, entirely unpredictable, unafraid and coaxing as it pumped him once, twice...Shiro could barely think past the coiled hotness in his belly.

“ _Fuck_ , Keith...”

“Shiro—” Keith's pupils were blown; he lunged forward for a kiss. “You're so beautiful, holy shit—you should see yourself, _Christ_ —”

“I want to touch you,” Shiro managed, past the heat and the light behind his eyes. “Can—”

“ _Yes_. Anything, yes—”

So Shiro shifted his legs, his hands curling tighter around Keith's biceps as he pressed him back onto the mattress. Keith's hands left Shiro's dick, and for a moment Shiro reeled at the loss— _more more please more so good_ —but he soon busied himself with Keith's torso, relishing the soft skin under his hands as he traveled up his sides, his chest...his thumb brushed over Keith's nipple, and Keith choked out a high noise. Spurred on, Shiro leaned down to lap at that same part of Keith's throat. He cried out, fingers clenched along Shiro's back as he lowered himself onto Keith's frame. Shiro straddled him with his hips; a nip at Keith's skin had him bucking up into his weight.

Shiro positioned himself so they could thrust against each other properly. It took a moment to find the perfect angle—close enough to grind, but far enough away to let Keith shift his hand between them...his mouth pressed to Keith's chest as he brushed their cocks. Another moment and Keith had them both wrapped around his fingers.

The sensation of Keith's dick against his, hot and hard and slick, was enough to make Shiro whine. He panted through the noise, choking on air as Keith stroked them up and down. He struggled to keep himself upright, supported on his elbows with his face turned towards Keith's shoulder, and nearly collapsed on top of him when Keith's finger found the tip of his dick; he swirled the precum around, then down along the shaft and onto his own cock. Somewhere along the line Shiro had started rambling, and he felt Keith's name leave his mouth again, alongside the slew of, “Ah, ah, god—” as he rubbed them in tandem. He could feel Keith becoming frantic under him, his breath hot and fast in his ear.

“Shiro—Shiro,” he rasped. “Can you look at me—please, I wanna' see your face—”

Fuck, he was gonna' come. “Keith—I can't...”

“Takashi—”

And he managed to look up. By some miracle, he found the strength to prop himself up, enough to meet Keith's eyes—right as the perfect tug sent him over the edge, spilling cum onto Keith's hand and belly. He registered a hot, wet sensation as Keith came as well, though his world was white with pleasure, and there was barely room in his head for the world beyond _Keith_ and _yes, yes, yes_.

Through the haze, Shiro kept his eyes on Keith's face. He was absolutely gorgeous like this, his hair askew, cheeks flushed red—lips parted as he panted through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He let himself sag against the bed, and Shiro followed him down, shifting sideways so he could lie beside him with his arm thrown over his torso, leg still over Keith's. He closed his eyes, curling into Keith's space like a cat in a sunbeam. He could hear the smile in Keith's voice when he said,

“God, that was amazing.” A kiss to the crown of his head as Keith craned his neck. “ _You_ were amazing.”

“I barely did anything,” Shiro huffed. Everything was soft and tinny, like the static sound of an empty room.

“You were hot as fuck,” Keith pronounced. Shiro chuckled, and he felt Keith's rise and fall as he went on: “What, I'm serious! I think that's the first time I've come at the same time as someone...”

Shiro let Keith anchor him to wakefulness—the prolactin rush made his limbs heavy. “Well, you absolutely _ravaged_ me...god, you heard me when you first touched my dick—”

“Shiro!”

“What?”

“Don't! You're gonna' make me hard again.”

Shiro smiled into Keith's chest, still a little winded. “Really? Some libido you got there...I could sleep for a week.”

Keith pretended to pout at him. He shook his shoulder gently. “Hey, hold up, sleepyhead. Gotta' shower first...or at least find a rag.”

“Use my shirt,” Shiro offered muzzily.

Keith snorted. “No way.”

“Why not? The alien washing machines can handle it.”

“Pfff. All right, hold on.”

Keith extricated himself from Shiro's grasp, fumbling around over the edge of the bed for Shiro's clothes. Shiro watched his progress fondly, through half-lidded eyes. Finally Keith located his shirt; he flopped onto his side, and—at Shiro's nodded permission—wiped the spunk from Shiro's crotch and belly. He used another patch to clean his own body, then flung the material over the side of the bed. With a great rustle of sheets, he burrowed into Shiro's space, hiking the blanket up to their shoulders. The two nuzzled close, coming to a rest turned towards each other on the bed, arms slung over each other's backs. Shiro perched his chin on the top of Keith's head.

“Keith,” Shiro murmured, as the silence and the warmth threatened to pull him under. “Thank you.”

“'R welcome,” Keith slurred. Shiro's heart swelled—he was adorable like this, cuddled close and on the edge of sleep. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Shiro said. He lifted his head long enough to kiss Keith's temple. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

It was too easy to drift off like that, finally chest to chest with his lover. Shiro wanted to stay awake for longer—to cherish the peacefulness of the moment; the comfort of Keith's body—but sleep plucked at the corners of his consciousness until at last he surrendered, and was carried away on the tide.

Even in sleep, he felt Keith's embrace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Emerges from a beaded curtain holding a hot mocha* So I wrote a sappy sex fic and edited it during my library shift...What you gonna' do, call the cops??
> 
> But yeah um—I LOVE! FICS! WHERE KEITH!!! KISSES! SHIRO'S SCARS!!! OHHHH MY GOD
> 
> Pfff these nerds...Y'ALL NEED TO WORK ON YOUR STAMINA! Practice makes perfect I guess fdsafsa
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at mighty-trash.tumblr.com


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